Human Hands
by Last of Romance
Summary: "Basking in the touch of skin against skin, baring himself and open wide, though they both knew that he could never truly be touched. Not by human hands." Law/Zoro, PWP, mild kink, heavy prose.


With a silent moan, Zoro's hips canted from the bed just slightly, roused from slumber in the midst of some heady little dreamings. The kind that no one on the ship talked about, little nocturnal secrets in their occurrence that stirred him to and fro, back and forth from sleep and heaving forward like a wave that hadn't quite gone tidal, just sliding barely off the shores of waking and sleeping.

Dreams, such shameful and _wonderful_ dreams.

Yet, they never were really just mere _dreams_.

Half-realities toying across his body, imaginings that liquified his nerves as something disembodied worked him up and down, down and up, in ways that simple human hands could not. In _places_ that human hands could not. It became almost ritualistic in the way that his own would slide down the musculature of his own body, tracing it and mapping it as if it were someone else, fueling the fiction with a dash of half-truth. His cock ached beneath his blanket, beneath his fingertips, and through them, he allowed the dream to take shape. An embodiment of tension, eyes with a face and a wicked mouth more focal than a rather stunning whole that he lacked the capacity to fathom as his stomach curled and tightened.

On all fours, a man crouched before him on his bunk, hovering intently just barely above him - though, at times, above and below felt so much the same that he couldn't differentiate entirely. But it made his body open up, regardless, and his lips as well in the moans that – while lacking in sound, never lacked in substance in all too many trembling little breaths. It didn't matter what angle it was that the man came before him in scrutiny, watching him caught in the act of self-gratification from below or above or from all sides. What it was that he saw, Zoro couldn't know - but it was there in the darkness about his golden eyes that the man liked it.

Those eyes lowered, lashes shadowing and obscuring a thoughtful gaze as the man swept down into an open-mouth kiss. A soft traipse of tongue that felt more of a courtesy than any passionate exchange. A greeting and a parting in one, hello and goodbye, farewell and all and none. It didn't matter when it made the swordsman's stomach tighten with need, so, so much nonetheless. And the only thing of possible detriment would have been a stopping point. Reasserting himself with the tightening of his fingers, stroking himself slowly as he and his intellect slowly teased about each other. Basking in the touch of skin against skin, baring himself and open wide, though they both knew that he could never truly be touched. Not by human hands – not by...

A soft laugh came to him. The sounds he drew forth, those were the things that touched him more than anything and his hips once again surged forward, making contact with nothing more than his own self. And that was fine; the man was smiling at him from whichever direction he had placed him in his half-lidded dreaming, yet he offered no particular expression in return. Not one to be taken personally, in any sense, as the pleasure just barely sliding into the the way his brow creased or the open-mouthed whimpers were not meant for anyone else but him. This was a secret, after all. Shameful. _**We don't talk about this...**_

Such was the language of the night, evening, or early morning – whichever hour it was, the swordsman never cared to noticed. The sheets tangled about him; he wanted to turn his pillow over onto the side that wasn't so hot beneath his turned cheek; his body felt too tight beneath his own skin. These things meant a lot more than time, and the man atop him now meant a lot more than the staggered things in the perception of a tried and true insomniac. At a flick of his wrist, he gasped once more, almost silently, and the man drew downward under that command. Fantasies never provided so much warmth, but it was there regardless in the soft, kittenish licks and nips placed about his thighs before almost artfully sliding down in between them. Just like that, what was fact and fiction seemed to stutter and skew about him. Engulfed, his world was all about the feeling of darkness, the colors of heat, the soft puffs of breath barely shifting the air and tickling the skin at the base of his dick.

This dream was spinning, had spun, its web fraying apart in such a way that it could only be real but it entirely wasn't. **Could Not Be**, decidedly so, as the hands on him touched as hands shouldn't, sunk deeper into his skin than fingertips allowed. The tongue gently French-kissing away at the tip of his cock was hot and wet and affected him as no fantasy really should have. The lips around him, the cool expression of the man attached to him, lavishing him up and down, was an impossibility in his existence. Were Zoro more lucid, he might have commended himself on his mind's great capability to conjure up such a perfect illusion only accommodated with the rough motions of his closed fist, but...

**But.**

The only faculty left to Zoro put a hand to his mouth, teeth scraping fruitlessly against the back of knuckles before clamping down on its side to keep the moment voiceless. So as to not wake anyone else in the room, keep quiet, keep it secret and safe. But the feeling was more intense than anything else he'd known and silence was so difficult - body all a-writhe with fire in his spine and electricity in his stomach, heart in his throat. Through half-lidded eyes, the other man moved slowly and took his time, but steadily in certain rhythm while his tongue did the same, up and down, in and out, his cock sinking between strong, soft lips. Zoro curled his upper body about his crumpled bed as it shuddered on its rigging, burying his face and twisting his torso both into it when it was all he could do and his too-vivid imagination was quick to follow and accommodate his contortionings. Too adept, perhaps. Too knowledgeable with the way that Zoro moved that he could be upon him again so quickly. But then again, there was no sense in dreaming any less a partner that couldn't do at least that much.

Which was sort of contrary - as that building pressure, insurmountable pleasure, had almost risen to a breaking point that he needed away from it to pause and collect himself, otherwise he was certain that something in him would give. But dreams and rest were, at these bests of times, mutually exclusive and were decidedly not so kind. They put Zoro exactly where they thought he should be, and to their whim as his thick muscles clenched in his stomach, gone shallow.

'_Zoro-ya_,' was all the warning he gave before-

Too sensitive there, but _ah…_

_ah..._

_ ah... _Tensing and then relaxing, heaving forward and exhaling to drop himself back as he felt his body shallowly pressed into by a fingertip too dainty to belong to himself. His pillow had become a long lost cause, the sheets tangled further and further into a torn up disaster zone beneath his tugging hands and feet. He could feel it, that skittering of heat that sank between his thighs as his balls drew taut, and deep under his skin and so far up in that his internal organs could have met the same fate as the sheets. Mouth falling open, he stammered helplessly – silently – some argument on the edge of his lips he could have voiced to the man un-aloud as an alternative to simply biting down on his own self. Leaving behind marks, self-inflicted or dream-inflicted (or any such ways of inflicted) could not be allowed.

And throughout, his interfictionary partner sucked at him greedily, almost too happily and so overeager . So eager that not even Zoro's force of will could control the speed that his heart thrummed, pulsing against the tip of his tongue as it pushed at the back of clenched teeth and bitten fingers. Trying to remain soundless, voiceless, reduced to a mindless lump of _nothing _and _nobody_ in a human shape that trembled at being fingerfucked by another man. To have another man's mouth run all over his cock. It made his blood run hot, filling out that lower part of his body to an impossible ache between muscled thighs that parted further, wanting for a _more_ and _deeper_ that the need for reticence didn't allow him to convey aloud.

(Zoro wasn't a man of shallow pleasures - not even in bed. Especially not in bed).

But this was his dream after all, and it knew him, it _listened_ \- understood the ins and outs of the language of his body, the words behind every shift and every writhe, even the most subtle of them. How much exactly of that '_more_' that the swordsman wanted, how much he could actually take. Three fingers, but for a moment. Four, nearly an entire hand then, burning and stretching and not at all gentle - gentle would never do, never at all. The pressure was almost too much, too much, far too much, but deeper inside than anyone had ever touched (_not by human hands, no_). He hissed in the dark, a little stunted outburst he failed to contain as his body gaped apart unabashed. A wordless, filthy murmur came to him in reply, light as the tip of a thumb lightly massaging against his perineum, almost like a caress. Almost.

_Nn_.

The man's eyes lifted, that darkdark _d a r k_ but somehow unaffected gaze drew heavy across Zoro's body as he admired his handiwork - and again, Zoro couldn't know what he saw. A wide-open body all atangle in torn sheets? Bathed in a sheen of his own sweat? Veins straining out of a muscular physique so starkly that one could nearly map his entire cardiovascular system? How his expression easily must have conveyed how badly he wanted to let go entirely and come all over himself? Zoro knew. Zoro liked it. This: the illusion of giving in and giving up of control; the fantasy of it all, the nonreality of agonizing sensation after agonizing sensation. Hard and rough stimuli, raw and visceral and shuddering deeper; raking fingers, hot mouth, and all shameful thoughts too.

The swordsman's free hand, the one not bitten at and abused (perhaps a comfort like a katana's hilt clenched between his teeth), reached down and clawed at the man's shoulders. Stubbed, clipped fingernails scraped at bare skin, and as he could feel it begin to tear and gather underneath their tips, a strong hand caught him at the wrist and gripped it tight. _No marks_, as if to say, before letting it drop back down. Not a hint nor a sign, no traces at all of what was taking place; revenants of dreams like these leave nothing in their wake.

It was true; there was evidence strewn about everywhere - one only had to know where to look, but no one would. Zoro pressed his partner back down between his legs. So close, now use that mouth as it's best meant - _taciturn men are so useful_. And as voraciously as he pleased, all-consuming, deep down on him, deep down within him. It was overwhelming, the burn and stretch of too many fingers traipsing through the secrets of his body, working it to its very limit. As limits were things meant to be pushed to their points of breaking; true limit only existed in the belief that there was such a thing as _limit_ itself. And so Zoro's body gave and gave and gave itself up but would never break. He was _limitless_. Twisting this way and that, contorting against the bunk, clenching, gripping at phantom limbs and shoulders.

He was going to -

His brows knit fiercely, expression crumbling apart.

Again, the man laughed softly around a mouthful of flesh, vibrating down the last fine hairs of Zoro's sanity. Like a burst of _haki_ that stretched out for miles and miles with The Thousand Sunny at its epicenter, he unleashed like a storm. His body flexing as one solid muscle, jaw tilted back, molars grinding; he shook and shook and he pulsed and he _shook_. And there was nothing at all that he could do but feel it run through him like falling apart and dying and being reborn. He groaned aloud like he couldn't help it when they both knew better, coming all over a pair of lethargically smiling lips, lapped up by a greedy tongue. Hot and wet, up from the base of his cock to the tip and down again to where he let it lay flat, sucking kisses across the skin of a quivering belly.

Whatever it was with that man's face, whatever expression that he wore then as he receded into the dark, Zoro couldn't see, not with his one eye shut tight as it was. But as he slumped back across the mess of his bunk, relearning how it was to take in air regularly, he was certain that look could own every one ever offered to him entirely.

After some moments (passage of time, ever still so foreign), his single-eye bleared apart to the room that he always knew in its state of dishevelment, with its heaps of sleeping men, snoring and muttering of this or that thing as was typical at night. A sweat-chill took to him, but only skin-deep as an untempered heat still lingered beneath and pulsed in his arteries, veins, dragging throughout the last twitches of his saliva-wet cock; the bob of his throat as he swallowed down too dry; the meager clench of his stretched out anus, all too satisfying. He allowed his body to give into a long stretch, letting all cramped tension drain away into a bone-deep tiredness that held reality in contempt that he should be awake at all. His bedding, casualty that it'd become, kicked away.

And Zoro lay there in the darkness, damp and cold, not sleeping and not awake and warring at this middle ground to stand at one or the other. Too tired to toss and turn, too alive to be kept still, and his eye watered as it blinked about in troublesome in-between that he took to watching the shadows slither across the walls in nearly-human shape. A slump of a man, a ship's cook making a surreptitious exit from the lower bunk - it must be nearly dawn, of course - out from the men's quarters and to the deck, allowing a slice of light to break across all that darkness at the opening of the door. Did he see? Did he know? Oh, _Aho-cook_-

This is not meant for you, loathsome Ero-cook, Kuso-cook; you couldn't understand. Some day, but some distant night, should he find his way to Zoro's dreamings, as well-

But that was a digression.

Sanji's stumble from the men's quarters was illuminated by a backdrop of moonlight like some unearthly, sensual patron to hot nights and aftermaths. With it, reality's fine line surfaced and drew itself out for him, revealed in another man casually leaning against the wall adjacent to his bunk, arms crossed against his tattoos, legs crossed at the ankle. Trafalgar Law was always marvelous to look at, absolutely. Worryingly attractive. Accidentally sensual. Especially when naked down to pale-colored jeans, ones slung around his hips so low that Zoro could actually see a marginal amount of skin at the base of his dick, nestled in curled, shining dark hair. Beside him, his nodachi stood tall and proud, tucked amongst three katana; the symbolism wasn't lost on the swordsman.

The man's expression bore the hint of a smile across lips all red and flush, yellow eyes kept demurely low in secret, though they were clearly intent on watching Sanji's retreat, all too quietly amused. It confirmed what Zoro had already thought, and how far his imagination had really stretched itself out too thin- _He saw, He knew_, and _He liked it_. And last but not at all least, _his dick was hard in that stupid suit of his_.

Zoro's lips pressed together in a crooked smile, holding back a small laugh. If there ever were a moment that he pitied the cook, this might have been it. The moment was, however, over quickly, as the door closed behind Sanji, prelude to the flickings of a lighter that could be heard on its other side. Law's smile languished as his eyes lifted, staring fiercely into nothingness, unfettered energy rolling off of his body and commingling into Zoro's own, desire trickling into his gut and ringing in his ears.

A whisper of '_room_' was mouthed into the dark.

It needed no interpretation.

With the light all gone once more and Sanji having receded to the galley, Law displaced the air above him instantly with his aggravating power, mouth and hands reeling the swordsman back into him once again, jeans tugging down tempting and pliant thighs.

Down and away, until there was all skin against skin in every conceivable place, and Zoro pressed back with a startling passion. All of his strength surged against and connected to Law's own, raw power versus devil's fruit and then some, bending the rules of physics as though

he meant

to fucking

**shatter them**.

And when they connected, like flint struck against steel, they sparked. Everywhere, they sparked, clashed, and rolled against and into each other. Everywhere, because the human body was in no such way a restriction with this shichibukai's ability. Demonstrated in the way a light touch of fingertips swept all up through Zoro's inners and outers as if traipsing him down to the root of his existence to bring it out for show and tell. All parts of him underwent resurgence, seeking contact where it could but his hands were once again pulling at his own self more often than not, as Law continually eluded him as he pleased. When he meant to run his fingers through inky blue-black hair, they futilely found themselves in his own, green and drenched with heat. It would happen there and again that his eye would open, but two eyes would open instead as a pair to be startled by the image of his own self pressing flush against him in all of the right places, as reality spun once more like a planet shifting off its axis and the tides went all awry.

And Zoro rode every one of them no matter how they came upon him - provocative, shameful half-truths and half-illusions and a man of yellow eyes in the dark, corporeal and not because reality did nothing to show the man's skill any true justice. Law was so fast, so everywhere, skirting at the edges of perception from below and above - everywhere and nowhere at all was the man, but deep down inside where human hands could not possibly touch. Should _not_ touch. But when fingertips came together, palm pressed to palm, they clenched as actual fingers and held on tight like some lifeline that kept one or the both of them anchored somewhat into the last vestiges of reality.

Zoro dreamed on - of a man playing avid audience as he was fucked within an inch of his actual life. That life itself was out of his hands, and in those fleeting moments, entrusted completely in those of one of the few men conceivably powerful enough to end it, keeping faith that he would treat it with utmost care. Law. Inside, taking him impossibly deep, bringing him to new and unforeseen heights. Law. His body hushed and clenched, heaved with the heaviest weight, chest aching with a fury only barely contained. Law. He kept quiet, and Law was as silent as death itself scrawled into desperately clinging fingers.

But were he in dreams, he could cry out at every sensation, tremble out little moans with every touch without restraint. It was the ultimate concession of actuality - sensibility was misplaced and replaced, and ambitions were stripped raw and laid out for scrutiny, strength given out and crippled beneath the wake of his own sweltering imaginations. Yet, unimaginable and unfathomable, fumbling in the throes of his own self-made degradation. It was shameful only on the outside, and so keep quiet, a secret - _no one can know_... because it took some lack of consciousness for him to truly put all else aside and feel the way he couldn't when his mind was fully awake. It wasn't characteristic of him to submit so hard, but then, who could say what was and wasn't characteristic of an untried, unpracticed sexuality? How could subjugation and dominance both be synonymous with selfish indulgence? In all of Zoro's unholy perseverance, there were no limits in his potential, deep down in his inner self where no one else's human hands could reach. What Trafalgar Law could really do for him, what he could really represent...

How deeply he could touch, in a _room_ within a room.

He'd dreamed something of this, long before they'd even met.

Because whenever they deeply kissed, however infrequent-

Law's lips dipped down inside to meet heart-flesh, and Zoro came _**alive**_.

* * *

04/02/15

AN: I have a hard time writing something without a plot, thus I'm already 12k words into a companion story that's not even half finished when I had other crap I wanted to work on. At least I'm writing it far less ambiguously, but it's Sanji-centric, filthy, and he's giving me emotions. D:

Thanks for reading!


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